


All Of You A Verb In Perfect View

by ladybonehollows



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, Smut, i guess there's also feelings, quentin gets fucked over a desk, that was supposed to be the only plot here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-26 01:20:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20035507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladybonehollows/pseuds/ladybonehollows
Summary: He liked watching Quentin’s mouth. The way he chewed on his lower lip when he was thinking, the way he smoothed his tongue over the indents from his teeth when he realised what he’d been doing. Leafing through a manilla folder, he pulled out a sketch of… he didn’t care what, honestly, especially when he tapped his pencil against his lip, then held it between his teeth as he used two hands to rearrange some of the mess of paper on the desk.Yes, this wasmuchmore interesting than anything he could have done by himself downstairs.----Quentin has a paper to write. It's not Eliot's fault that he's bored, and it'sabsolutelynot his fault that Quentin looks so good bent over his desk.





	All Of You A Verb In Perfect View

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Holly and Eliza for bullying me into writing this fic, to Gigi and Riz for reading through it, and to RAO in general for being eternally supportive. The next time I say I'm going to write some 1k PWP, feel free to start laughing straight away.
> 
> This fic _isn't_ named The Extension or The ASSignment or Bend It Like Beckham, but thanks for making me laugh anyway.

Of all the things Eliot was good at, sitting still wasn’t one of them.

He tried. He really did. When Quentin had told him that he just needed an hour to finish his paper on the metacompisition project that they’d been given, he’d promised him that he’d give him some space. Learning was important, afterall. Or something.

That had been — he pulled out the pocket watch from his breast pocket and glanced at the clock face —- fifteen minutes ago.

_Oh god_. It wasn’t like there was _nothing_ to do, but… there was nothing to do that interested him more than Quentin. They’d been sleeping together for two months now and a fully fledged, real life couple for half that time. He knew that Quentin was worried that he was going to get bored of him. _He_ worried that he’d be too much, not enough, this porridge is too hot, but Quentin’s face still lit up everytime he laid eyes on him.

And… it’s not like he wasn’t used to that. He was used to using his body and his wit and his scathing _treat ‘em mean_ attitude to keep people interested. But Quentin still looked at him like that when he was tired and crotchety, when he was hungover and miserable, when he’d spent three days in bed two weeks ago with a head cold.

He wanted to see Quentin smile at him. He wanted to see him squirm, to see him blush, to see him laugh and roll his eyes and —

Oh fuck, he was so far gone.

And_ bored_. It might have been different if Margo was here, but she was off seducing some first year Illusion student whose name he hadn’t bothered to learn. The bar needed restocking, but he wanted her opinion on the last vintage they’d purchased before he committed to another supply. He felt too restless to occupy himself, and he’d be damned if he was going to make conversation with fucking _Todd_.

It’d be fine. Quentin would forgive him.

Taking one last draw from his cigarette, he tossed the Cosmo that he’d lifted from Margo’s room onto the couch beside him and pushed himself to his feet, striding purposefully toward the staircase.

He didn’t bother knocking on Quentin’s door, not wanting to give him the chance to turn him away. He wasn’t going to be disruptive, maybe just stretch out on Quentin’s bed and keep him company. Maybe he should have brought the magazine with him. Either way, he suddenly felt much more positive in his day.

The ward on his door was a simple one, designed mostly as a sound shield as to give anyone pause who tried to enter, and Eliot brought it down with ease. It was almost like he _wanted_ to be interrupted. Stepping quickly into the room, Eliot rebuilt the shield — much stronger and more efficient than before, thank you very much — and then leaned back casually against the door.

Predictably, Quentin sat at his desk, his head bowed forward as he scribbled on the notebook in front of him. Despite the fact that it was almost two arms lengths deep and at least twice as wide, the whole surface of it was covered with pages of notes and equations and diagrams. He could still remember the look on Quentin’s face when he’d performed what the person who’d taught it to him had called “the Mary Poppins bag charm”. He much preferred Hermione Granger’s bag of tricks. That witch was much more likely to have something interesting hidden away in there.

Watching Quentin’s face light up when he told him that he’d found him room to study that was quiet and away from everyone else, and then opening his bedroom door to his magically extended room, complete with his own sturdy, mahogany, totally not stolen desk, had been worth every second of the three hours it had taken to cast the spell.

“Nope,” Quentin said now without looking up at him, his voice firm and brusque and shattering the memory of his selfless generosity. “I said an hour. It’s been fifteen minutes, El. I have to get this done.”

“It’s been twenty,” Eliot said, pushing off against the door and wandering over to Quentin’s chest of drawers.

“I came up here at two fifteen. It’s… two thirty-three. And see, you’re already distracting me.”

“See? Twenty minutes.” The top of the cupboard was crowded with figurines. He recognised a few Star Wars characters, Hermione and her friends, and a variety of Fillorian figures. He hadn’t told Quentin yet, but he’d started rereading the series, and he grimaced at the little plastic figure that was, by her clothing and the clock-tree sapling in her hand, supposed to be Jane. She looked nothing like the Jane Chatwin he’d conjured in his head. Well, you couldn’t win them all. He immediately considered and disregarded that sentiment from his current situation. “I’ll be quiet. You won’t even notice that I’m here.”

“Uh huh.” The skepticism in Quentin’s voice probably should have offended him, if he didn’t enjoy it so much. “I give you five minutes.”

“Before I can distract you?” he said quickly, spinning on the spot and forcing his grin into a smirk, raising his eyebrows questioningly.

Someone who was as frustrated as Quentin was trying to be really shouldn’t have such a twinkle in their eye. “Just. Let me finish this, okay?”

Pinching his thumb and his forefinger together, he drew them across his lips and then twisted his fingers, throwing the imaginary key over his shoulder. Quentin watched him for a few seconds more, his lips pressed together but his eyes crinkling at the corners, before he turned back to his desk.

Eliot leaned back against the cupboard, careful not to disrupt any of the figurines on top. After staring at the notepad in front of him, Quentin returned to his work, one hand holding his place on the textbook open beside him while he wrote something down with the other.

Grabbing a book from the top of the pile stacked up against the wall, he laid down on the bed, fluffing a pillow behind his shoulders and stretching his legs out, one ankle crossed over the other. Opening the book without paying attention to the title, he looked right over it to Quentin. This angle was perfect, actually, to see Quentin in profile. His hair was tucked behind his ears, except for when it slipped free every thirty seconds or so. He could watch the way his brow furrowed in concentration, or smoothed in relief when he made a connection that had been alluding him, or the self-satisfied smile when he was confident about what he was putting down.

He liked watching Quentin’s mouth. The way he chewed on his lower lip when he was thinking, the way he smoothed his tongue over the indents from his teeth when he realised what he’d been doing. Leafing through a manilla folder, he pulled out a sketch of… he didn’t care what, honestly, especially when he tapped his pencil against his lip, then held it between his teeth as he used two hands to rearrange some of the mess of paper on the desk.

Yes, this was _much_ more interesting than anything he could have done by himself downstairs.

“Stop staring at me,” Quentin said, without looking up.

Eliot continued to stare at him. “I’m sorry, did you say something? I’m just focusing _so_ hard on this book.”

Finally turning his head, Quentin had barely glanced at him before he was rolling his eyes, except he used his whole body to do it. “Obviously,” he said, looking pointedly at the book in Eliot’s hands.

The book which was, upon further inspection, upside down.

He met Quentin’s eye again and, very slowly and very deliberately, turned the book the right way up.

Snorting, Quentin turned back to the table, pausing for a moment to find his place again before returning his pencil to the page. Eliot closed his eyes. It probably made him an asshole, but it felt good that just his presence was enough to distract Quentin enough to make him fidgety. He felt an unwelcome twinge of guilt, and wondered if maybe he should just let him study. He didn’t want to go back downstairs, but maybe he could nap. He wasn’t tired, but then Quentin could glance over and see him looking so adorable that he wouldn’t be able to help himself from coming over to play with him. Smiling, Eliot let himself sink into the _scratch scratch_ of Quentin’s pencil on paper. _Scratch scratch scratch snap. _“Shit.”

That wasn’t right. Opening his eyes, he found Quentin staring at the pencil in his hand, the lead snapped. “Oh no,” Eliot said.

The look Quentin threw him seemed to imply that he was anything less that genuine, which — rude. “I have spares.” He inhaled deeply, and then let out a huff of laughter on the exhale. Opening the top draw of the desk, he searched through it for a few seconds before looking up again, pausing when his eyes settled on the pencil tin on the other end of the desk.

Standing up, he leaned over it, supporting himself with one palm flat on the desk while his other hand rummaged through the jumble of pens for what he needed. Eliot’s eyes were immediately drawn to the way Quentin looked stretched over the table. He could see the outline of his thin frame through his t-shirt, caught a glimpse of a stripe of skin between the shirt and the top of his jeans. And oh, the perfect curve of his ass, wrapped up in denim that, if not tailored, was at least well-fitting.

Why hadn’t they fucked on the desk, yet?

“I swear to god, if Professor Lipson hadn’t given us that extension, I’d never get this finished in time.”

_Wait… what?_ “I thought the paper was due tomorrow,” he said slowly.

“Hmm? Yeah, it was, but someone almost blew half the class up a few days ago, so we were given until Thursday to make sure that we’re being safe about it. I could have sworn I had one of those retractable pencils in here.”

Most of those words washed over Eliot without meaning. He was still stuck back on _extension_ and _Thursday_, and had Quentin told him earlier that he’d needed to get this finished today or had he just _assumed_ that?

Sighing in frustration, Quentin leaned further over the desk, his back arching as he dropped himself down onto his elbow while he searched, and Eliot was off the bed immediately. The lack of urgency to his project, combined with the way he was _draped over the fucking desk_, washed away any hesitance he held about disrupting him. Oh, he was going to disrupt him all right. Tossing the book onto the mattress, he took the three long strides across the room slowly, taking care to come up behind Quentin quietly.

The realisation that the desk was the perfect height to align him with Quentin sent a rush of desire through him. He wanted to put his hands on his hips, to press him down onto the table, to hear the broken off little cry he'd make when he pushed into him for the first time… to teach him that when your professor gave you an extension, you _told your boyfriend so he could fuck you._

He put his hands on his hips.

Quentin stilled. He still held the pencil tin while the other had paused in its search through it, his hips already pressed against the edge. A small amount of pressure on the middle of his back would have him down on his stomach. Eliot smoothed one of his hands up, feeling the knobs of his spine through his t-shirt, just letting himself imagine it.

"Um." Quentin still hadn't moved. "Hi?"

"Hi," he said.

"So the not distracting me thing lasted a whole… two minutes."

He chose not to point out that his sarcasm didn't have quite the same effect when his voice gave a little wobble like that. "What do you care?" Eliot trailed his hand higher, accidentally-but-not-quite causing Quentin's shirt to ride up a little bit in the process, and curled it around his shoulder. "You have three whole extra days. And besides, that agreement was made under false pretences," he added, rocking his hips forward to press against Quentin's ass. 

Quentin still hadn't turned to look at him, but the way his shoulders stiffened was nice to watch. His hands slowly dropped from the pencil tin to press flat against the desk. "You know that this is basically the start to every other porno, right?"

Grinning, Eliot leaned forward, trapping him against the desk with his body. Christ, this angle was _perfect_. He waited until his breath against Quentin's neck made him shiver before pressing his lips lightly on his skin, just behind his ear. "Is it? I hadn't noticed."

He felt the tremble of laughter pass through him. "Eliot —"

Tightening his grip on his shoulder, Eliot straightened up and pulled Quentin with him. Quentin's hands scrambled for a moment before one caught at the edge of the desk, and the other clutched to Eliot's arm, now wrapped around his middle. Eliot's other hand trailed across Quentin's chest, up his neck. He pressed two fingers to his jaw, turning his face toward his and rubbing his nose against his cheek. Already, he could feel his breath hitching, and he tightened his arm around him, holding him tight. "Yes, darling?"

Quentin's head turned further, but Eliot avoided his mouth, bending his head to kiss along his jaw. "I — uh," he mumbled, pressing back against Eliot and he decided to give in, pressing his lips to the corner of Quentin's mouth, breathing in his gasp when he twisted his neck enough to kiss him properly.

He tried to turn around in his arms but Eliot held him firm, his grip around him tight and his hips pinning him to the desk. He loved how needy Quentin could be, how quickly he went from zero to desperate. When he seemed to catch on that Eliot wasn't going to let him turn, he whined against his mouth, and Eliot fought to keep his composure as he grinded his ass back against him. He could feel himself already getting hard, was sure Quentin could feel it too.

Quentin broke the kiss, sucking in air, and Eliot turned his attention to his neck, biting down lightly on the sensitive skin and then soothing it with his tongue. His fingers tightened around his forearm, and he looked over Quentin's shoulder to see his knuckles white. Good.

Dropping his hand from Quentin's face, he tugged at the hem of his t-shirt. "I think you should take this off."

"Yeah?"

He already sounded _wrecked._ Jesus Christ, this boy was so good for his ego. Eliot hummed his agreement into his neck, slipping his hand underneath the shirt to spread flat over his skin. Quentin's stomach muscles twitched under his touch. "Yeah. Can I take it off?"

“I, um — yeah. Yes.”

Shifting the arm held tight around Quentin’s waist up to grasp his shoulder instead, Eliot let his hand drift higher, dancing over his stomach, his chest, finding his nipple and flicking over it with his thumb. He pinched it between his fingers just to hear him gasp again, before removing his hands.

Taking the hem of Quentin’s shirt in both hands, Eliot pulled it up over his shoulders, tossing it in the vague direction of the bed behind him, and then he had so much bare skin before him. Wrapping both arms around Quentin’s middle, he delighted in the feel of his body warm against his forearms, glad that he’d rolled up the sleeves of his shirt before coming upstairs. He wondered whether the embroidery on his vest was scratching against Quentin’s back, whether the press of buttons felt uncomfortable or whether he liked it.

Quentin leaned back, making a small sound in the back of his throat as he rubbed his back against Eliot, and Eliot hid his smile in his shoulder.

Slowly, he let his hands drift over Quentin’s chest and stomach, pausing when he reached the top of his jeans. Keeping his touch light, he traced back and forth across the sensitive skin there, until Quentin’s head fell back to rest on his shoulder and he started to grind back on him once more. He was so worked up already, and Eliot had barely even done anything yet. “Can I take these off too?” he asked quietly, stilling his hands with his thumb ready on the button of his jeans, resisting the urge to reach just a few inches lower and feel how hard he was.

The moment he mumbled his assent, the button was through the hole and his zipper down. “Hands on the desk,” he said, pushing Quentin forward. His hands fell flat on the desk, disrupting his paperwork. Eliot paused. As much as that pulled at a particularly delightful schoolboy fantasy, that’s not what he wanted right now. And, he acknowledged reluctantly, he didn’t want Quentin’s head caught up in whether his homework was getting ruined while he was being thoroughly fucked.

Pulling Quentin upright again, he held him still with his hands on his arms as he mentally pushed all of the sprawling paperwork into a pile and then floated it over to his bedside table. Quentin let out his breath with a huff, and he wasn't sure if he was impressed with the display of telekinetic power or appreciation for the care of his homework, and the potential for it to be a combination of the two shouldn't have made him feel so good. Watching the scraps of paper and notebooks and textbooks give way to the rich grain of the desktop, he appreciated the aesthetic of the reward he’d been given for his altruism. Quentin’s skin would look gorgeous against the mahogany.

The thought of having him bent over with his pants around his ankles was a very good image, but the way Quentin had reacted to the feeling of his clothes on his bare skin had him caught in the need to have him completely bare. Putting Quentin's hands back on the desk, he slipped his fingers inside the waistband of his underwear, pushing them down along with his jeans, smoothing his palms over the sides of his legs. Eliot kissed the back of his thigh as he pulled one foot and then the other through his jeans, and Quentin let out a shaky little laugh.

Eliot stood up, deliberately letting his clothing brush over Quentin's bare skin as he did so. He bent over him, pressing against his back, holding him still with two hands on his waist as he grinded into the cleft of Quentin's ass. His body thrummed with the need to be inside him. “Quentin. Do you want me to fuck you on your desk?”

"Oh god,” he whimpered, shifting his weight from one leg to the other in a way that resulted in his legs parted.

_Good boy._ Kissing his shoulder, Eliot slipped one hand between them, slipping between his cheeks and massaging lightly at the skin around his opening. He reached further, up between his legs to cup his balls, stroking over them with gentle fingers in a way that had Quentin squirming against him. “That’s not really an answer,” he said, dropping his other hand lower to wrap around his cock.

He was already rock hard. Quentin’s legs trembled when he began to stroke him, bucking back against Eliot and then forward into his hand. Hurriedly, Eliot summoned the lube over to them, rolling his balls one last time in his hand before he pulled it back to catch the lube that he squeezed from the bottle. “Yes,” Quentin said, his head dropping down between his shoulders as Eliot rubbed his slick fingers over his puckered skin. “Yes, I want you to — to fuck me over the desk.”

“Good,” Eliot said, and pressed the tip of his finger into him.

“Oh — oh fuck.” Quentin’s hands fisted on the table as he worked his finger in deep. “_Eliot_.”

“Mmm.” He loosened his grip on Quentin’s cock as lube dribbled onto it, then tightened his hand around him again, stroking him slowly from root to tip. “Tell me,” he said, as he moved his finger in and out of him, feeling him tighten and release around him. He was a natural at this, relaxing around him wonderfully, and Eliot pressed in a second finger. “Was this what you wanted, when you had your ass up in the air before? Were you thinking about me bending you over like this? Or would you rather I stop distracting you?”

Quentin’s laugh broke off into a moan when he curled his fingers and stroked them over his prostate.

Eliot watched as his shoulders stiffened, his head bowing between his shoulders, and couldn’t wait for the moment where he’d be able to surround him completely. He wanted to be the only thing he could comprehend, in and around him all over.

Even so, it was easy to push aside his own desire when the prep tore such satisfying reactions out of Quentin. He picked up the pace of his fingers, pressing against that sensitive spot inside him every time he pushed in, spreading his fingers to stretch him every time he pulled out, until Quentin was a writhing mess before him, thrusting back onto his fingers every time. He’d dropped down to his elbows again, angling his ass higher like he was _begging_ for it.

Pulling back both of his hands, he undid his belt, unzipping his trousers. He felt a shock run through his whole body when he took himself in hand, and didn’t hold back his moan at the sensation, hoping to get an extra rise out of Quentin. His trousers sat around his hips, dropped low enough to free his cock and balls without losing the effect of being fully dressed. He took a deep breath in, revelling in the way that his clothing restrained him, nudging Quentin’s legs apart a little further with his knee because the only thing that restrained Quentin was _him._

It was nothing to summon a condom from the box in Quentin’s top draw, to squirt another helping of lube onto his palm and slick himself up, wiping the excess over Quentin’s hole, pressing inside for one final tease before he withdrew his hands and stepped forward. Quentin was just standing there, so _beautifully patient_, just _waiting_ for him. He put his right hand to the small of his back, angling him down just a little, admiring the curve of his back. He marvelled, once again, how he’d found someone like _Quentin_, who ticked so many of his boxes sexually and also managed to pull at him in so many other ways. He felt _seen_ in a way that felt dangerous, that was more than he’d had to ever prepare himself for.

And if he made him feel like he’d earned every sexual skill he’d learned over the last ten or so years, then all the better.

Flattening his hands on the back of Quentin’s thighs, he smoothed them up over the scene, pulling apart his cheeks. It would be so good to eat him out like this, to drop to his knees again and absolutely ruin him with his lips and tongue. But he could tell already that this wasn’t going to be a session that he could draw out, for himself or for Quentin.

He took a moment to line himself up, but withheld himself from pushing inside. Draping himself over Quentin, he focused on the way his shoulders moved as he took each long, slow, deliberate breath, on the aborted jerks of his hips back against his. He hadn’t even told him not to move, but he was getting all of the desperate little instinctive reactions from him anyway. “El,” Quentin said, as Eliot’s hands returned to his sides, his fingers biting into his hip bones.

“Yeah?” Eliot said, as he pushed forward, slowly but steadily, into Quentin, his breath catching in his throat from the way he clutched around him, hot and tight and perfect.

“_Oh_.” Quentin’s breath left him in a small, audible huff. They’d been fucking often enough over the past two months that Quentin was familiar with the stretch of him, but he still made this incredible, shocked little sound every time Eliot worked the whole of himself inside him, like he couldn’t believe he was so full, or he was filled up by _Eliot_, or maybe that he was getting fucked at all. Eliot still hadn’t definitively put his finger on it, but he loved it just the same, loved the broken, cut-off moans that he made through every inch that Eliot slipped deeper.

Supporting himself with one hand beside Quentin’s, he wrapped his other around his waist, holding his hips close as he pressed in as deep as he could. Quentin was breathing heavily, and Eliot watched his shoulders move with each breath, feeling almost drunk with it as he circled his hips. He would never get over how responsive Quentin was, how perfectly they fit together.

Pulling almost all of the way back out, Eliot slowly thrust back in, drawing a long, low moan from Quentin as he did so. Eliot thrust again, out and then all the way back in and then stayed there, as deep as he could, feeling completely and utterly wrapped up in him. Pushing himself back, he placed his hand quickly on the middle of Quentin's back, holding him in place, and then — he increased the pressure, pushing him down until his stomach was flat on the desk. Quentin's hands had remained on the wood, his elbows bent like he was about to push himself back. Eliot tapped one with his free hand, nodding to himself when Quentin relaxed his arms. He seemed uncertain for a moment what he should do with them, but Eliot felt a surge of satisfaction when he reached up to grasp the opposite edge of the desk. _Oh, yes._

Keeping the one hand on Quentin's back, holding him down, he let the other wander up his side, admiring the long stretch of his body over the desk. All for him. "You have no idea how good you look like this," he said, marvelling at the truth of his words. Quentin's complete lack of understanding for just how beautiful he was was part of his charm. Spreading his left hand out beside his right, he pulled back, lingering for a moment on the verge of slipping out before he pressed back in, burying himself in deep and watching Quentin's shoulder blades flex. "You still have no idea how much I want you, all the time."

Quentin made a sound, low in his throat. "Even when —" he said, his words cut off with another thrust.

"_All of the time, Q._"

His whimper sent a shiver through him.

Eliot let his body fall into a rhythm, living every breath on the gasping “_Oh,_” Quentin made with each thrust. He hadn’t been thinking about this when he’d reconstructed the wards around the room, but he loved it when Quentin gave himself over to pleasure completely, didn’t try to hold back or keep quiet. He wanted to hear him fall apart without restraint.

Shifting his stance a little, he slowed his thrusts when Quentin’s body stiffened, his moans catching, surprised, in his throat. And then he stopped, deep inside him, knowing the pressure on his prostate without the movement was good but not enough.

It was only a few seconds before Quentin was squirming, his hips moving in small jerks as he sought friction inside of him. “El,” he said, a little gasped laugh, and Eliot could feel him flexing around him. “I need...”

He felt so powerful like this. He wanted more. He wanted Quentin to tremble with it, and all because of him. “I think you should ask me nicely.”

Quentin groaned, his hands clenching around the edge of the desk. “Eliot, oh my god.”

He tightened his grip, resisting the urge to move. “Hmm?”

“Eliot, _please_ — please, fuck me, please_._”

The words, the desperate edge to them, washed over him, and he felt drunk with it as he pulled back and then snapped his hips forward, thrusting deep, holding him there as he shuddered around him. Quentin let out a surprised shout, and then a deep, guttural moan on the second thrust, in time with Eliot's moan as he clenched tight around him.

Quentin tried to lean back, but Eliot returned one hand to press between his shoulder blades, holding him down against the desk as he kept up the same rhythm. Withdrawing quickly, almost all the way, before thrusting in deep, hitting his prostate along the way and then holding him still, letting him feel the full length of him, as deep as he could go every time.

Eliot's world narrowed down to the low, broken sound Quentin made with every thrust, the hot squeeze of his ass around him. He almost wished that the desk were less sturdy so that he could hear it banging against the wall, but discarded the thought immediately, not wanting to trade the force of these thrusts and the way Quentin reacted to them for anything. He'd barely touched his cock, but maybe he could make him come just from fucking him like this.

Looking down at them, at his fully clothed body pressed right up to a completely bare Quentin, he watched his cock sink inside him again and again, moaned at the sight of him stretched around him, at the smooth, perfect asscheeks spread just for him. Sliding his hand down from Quentin's hip, he smoothed his hand over his ass and then back up again, admiring the lines of his back beneath his hands. Reaching further, he curled his hand around his shoulder, digging his fingers into his skin. Eliot used the leverage to pull him back onto him, harder, and had to pause, breathing deeply, as a shudder ran through Quentin, causing him to tense around him. "Fu… fuck, El," he moaned, crying out when Eliot thrust again. He was high on every sound he made, on the way he stiffened and shivered beneath him, he was — he was close, and he couldn't stop.

Quentin's head tilted back, the length of his hair brushing against Eliot's fingers, and — _oh, yes._ Letting go of his shoulder, he twisted his fingers in his hair instead, and Quentin's ragged groan when he tugged hard sent a shock through him. Tightening his grip, he brought his hand back and Quentin's head with it, leaning down over him and pressing against his back. He wanted to feel his skin on his skin, but the warmth of it through his clothes was almost as good. "Oh… El," Quentin gasped, his whole body trembling along with his voice.

Tugging on his hair once more just to hear him cry out, Eliot closed his mouth over his shoulder, letting himself fuck into Quentin faster now. God, he — was right there, wasn't going to last much longer at all. "Q," he said, trying and failing to sound steady. "I want you to come, like —" Quentin cried out again, loud and desperate, and he groaned, he was rambling but he couldn't stop "— like this, come like this, I'm not even going to touch you and you're, _ah,_ you're going to come right on my cock, Q, Quentin, oh fuck —"

He could feel a hand on his head, pressing his face against Quentin's neck, but it barely registered over the way his body jerked under him, clenching hard around him and his cry dissolved into one long moan as he started to come. Eliot tightened his grip on him, squeezing his eyes shut against the need to just… to crawl into him and never leave, to know every goddamn inch of him and to _be known_ in return, to never stop feeling this lightening shooting underneath his skin. He sped up, letting go of the shred of self restraint that he'd held onto and then his mind went blank, white heat shooting through him again and again as he came deep inside him.

His arms gave out and he slumped over Quentin's back. "Oh my god," Quentin said, his voice hoarse. "Oh my god, Eliot."

"Uh huh." He'd think of something witty to say in a minute. Right now, he couldn't think past the light, boneless feeling in every inch of him. He never wanted to move from this spot, wanted to stay wrapped around Quentin forever… except the bed would be more comfortable, and his cock was starting to feel sensitive in the not-so-great way, still inside Quentin. Belatedly, he realised just how tightly he was still holding onto him, and forced his fingers to unclench.

He felt like he was floating, but he wanted more. Suddenly, the need to have his bare skin against Quentin's was too much, and he pulled out with a quick breath, leaning back and pulling him with him.

His plan to get out of his clothes and into bed as quickly as he could was thwarted when Quentin turned around, barely waiting for him to deal with the condom before he was wrapping both arms around his neck and pulling him down to kiss him, and… well, he could hardly refuse. Quentin's mouth moved on his slowly, lazily, and Eliot was surprised by the tenderness he felt at being so thoroughly cared for. The feeling of Quentin's smile against his lips shouldn't have been the best part, and yet. "Let me get you into bed," Eliot murmured against him, and felt as much as heard Quentin's tired laugh.

"I bet you say that to all the boys."

Pressing another quick kiss to his lips, Quentin pulled back enough to gaze up at him, his eyes half lidded and so painfully happy, and Eliot… Eliot didn't know what to do with the overwhelming wave of feeling that washed over him because Quentin was looking at him like _that_, not just like he'd been fucked into the desk and like he'd loved every second of it, but also like maybe he lo—

Taking his face between his hands, he kissed him until the panic subsided.

He felt steadier when Quentin pulled away, and more so when Quentin turned his head to look at the desk. Eliot watched him closely as his eyes travelled over the mess of come, right there on the _floor_, his cheeks flushing red when he looked back to Eliot, still fully clothed except for his softening cock hanging out from the top of his trousers. His clothes were a mess, covered in both of their sweat and probably some of his come, and he could only imagine what a sight he was. He tried to keep his surprise in check when he realised the look on Quentin's face was more desire than embarrassment. "That was — really hot," he said, swallowing against the strain in his voice.

"What part?" Eliot asked.

"Um," Quentin said, his voice suddenly quiet, the colour in his cheeks deepening. He dropped his eyes to Eliot's chest. "You, and um. Everything… that you do?"

He was going to make it his life's mission to make Quentin feel comfortable admitting he _liked_ things, that his sexual pleasure wasn't something to feel awkward about. "Well that's good," he said, keeping it light instead, "because I like doing those things with you."

Kissing the relieved smile on Quentin's face, he nudged him toward the bed. It only took a few seconds to spell the mess on the desk and the floor clean, and a few more to peel himself out of his clothes, and then he was crawling into bed beside Quentin. He'd pushed the quilt to the bottom of the bed and slipped in underneath the sheet. Lying down beside him, he tugged at Quentin’s arm until he got the hint and rolled on top of him, kissing him until he melted against him and then kissing him some more. This felt so good, their bodies pressed together from chest to knee, his warm skin _finally_ on his. He could quite happily stay here for hours.

"Are we just going to spend all afternoon in bed now?" Quentin asked eventually, dropping his head to rest on Eliot's shoulder.

Smoothing his hands slowly up and down Quentin's back, he tried not to think too hard about the way Quentin's breath fanned across his neck with every word. Until he leaned forward, pressing his lips to the skin like he could read his mind, and Eliot sighed happily. "Do you have something better to do?" he teased, then slapped his hand against Quentin's asscheek lightly in warning. "And if you say your fucking homework, I'm going to murder you."

The way Quentin's body shook against his as he laughed made his stir in interest, and he curled his hand around the back of his neck, pulling his head up so he could kiss him again, wrapping his arms around him tightly.

Quentin's smile was wide and his breath short when he pulled back. His hair was in his eyes, and Eliot tucked it behind his ear, trailing down his cheek and along his jaw, tracing the curve of his smile with his thumb. Quentin leaned into the touch, his eyes bright. "I'm right where I want to be."

He meant it, he was looking at him like he meant it, and Eliot felt that same little panic-inducing flip in his chest because _well shit_, he could relate.

Tucking that away to worry about later, rolling his eyes instead. "Jesus Q, could you _be_ any more cheesy?" he said with a grin, his laughter muffled when Quentin bent his head to kiss him again, and cut off completely when he rolled his hips down against his.

And if he let himself think, as he watched Quentin fall apart above him, that this could be all he needed, then that wasn't really his fault, was it?


End file.
